‘Take a cup of wine,’ said the freedman.

’A thought too cold:  but then how cold Glaucus must be!  Shut up the house to-morrow—­not a slave shall stir forth—­none of my people shall honour that cursed arena—­No, no!’

’Taste the Falernian—­your grief distracts you.  By the gods it does—­a piece of that cheesecake.’

It was at this auspicious moment that Sosia was admitted to the presence of the disconsolate carouser.

‘Ho—­what art thou?’

’Merely a messenger to Sallust.  I give him this billet from a young female.  There is no answer that I know of.  May I withdraw?’

Thus said the discreet Sosia, keeping his face muffled in his cloak, and speaking with a feigned voice, so that he might not hereafter be recognized.

’By the gods—­a pimp!  Unfeeling wretch!—­do you not see my sorrows?  Go! and the curses of Pandarus with you!’

Sosia lost not a moment in retiring.

‘Will you read the letter, Sallust?’ said the freedman.

‘Letter!—­which letter?’ said the epicure, reeling, for he began to see double.  ’A curse on these wenches, say I!  Am I a man to think of—­(hiccup)—­pleasure, when—­when—­my friend is going to be eat up?’

‘Eat another tartlet.’

‘No, no!  My grief chokes me!’

’Take him to bed said the freedman; and, Sallust’s head now declining fairly on his breast, they bore him off to his cubiculum, still muttering lamentations for Glaucus, and imprecations on the unfeeling overtures of ladies of pleasure.

Meanwhile Sosia strode indignantly homeward.  ‘Pimp, indeed!’ quoth he to himself.  ’Pimp! a scurvy-tongued fellow that Sallust!  Had I been called knave, or thief.  I could have forgiven it; but pimp!  Faugh!  There is something in the word which the toughest stomach in the world would rise against.  A knave is a knave for his own pleasure, and a thief a thief for his own profit; and there is something honorable and philosophical in being a rascal for one’s own sake:  that is doing things upon principle—­upon a grand scale.  But a pimp is a thing that defiles itself for another—­a pipkin that is put on the fire for another man’s pottage! a napkin, that every guest wipes his hands upon! and the scullion says, “by your leave” too.  A pimp!  I would rather he had called me parricide!  But the man was drunk, and did not know what he said; and, besides, I disguised myself.  Had he seen it had been Sosia who addressed him, it would have been “honest Sosia!” and, “worthy man!” I warrant.  Nevertheless, the trinkets have been won easily—­that’s some comfort! and, O goddess Feronia!  I shall be a freedman soon! and then I should like to see who’ll call me pimp!—­unless, indeed, he pay me pretty handsomely for it!’

While Sosia was soliloquising in this high-minded and generous vein, his path lay along a narrow lane that led towards the amphitheatre and its adjacent palaces.  Suddenly, as he turned a sharp corner he found himself in the midst of a considerable crowd.  Men, women, and children, all were hurrying or laughing, talking, gesticulating; and, ere he was aware of it, the worthy Sosia was borne away with the noisy stream.